Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter is not playing with y’all simple handkerchief head, panty-waste asses no fuckin’ mo’! She just put all our business in the streets with “Lemonade.” And, by “our,” I mean every(black)body! She told all y’all that held her up as the next feminist sheroe to, “fuck yo’ feminism and all its exclusions of the terrorism of black bodies.” She ain’t here for that shit and she ain’t gotta pretend no fuckin’ mo’. Checks been cashed. She rich bitch! She ain’t nobody’s pick-a-ninny, mammy, or negro wench. She ain’t window dressing or keeping calm for not none of y’all.

Now, if you watched that whole montage of black beauty, brilliance, and womanhood and still think it’s just about Jay Z’s alleged cheatin’ ass, you missed the whole fuckin’ point. Bey ain’t told nobody nothin’ about her business in ever. Oprah couldn’t even crack her ass. You really think she just put her journal to a beat ‘cause y’all bffs in your head? Ya’ll so busy tryin’ to put a name to where Jay been dippin’ his paintbrush, that you can’t see the whole picture. That was the minor plot. These simple surface basic bitches ‘round here thinking they done found a roaming husband support group in Bey. I can’t even deal! So, I’mma have to let somebody with a little bit more patience break it all the way down til’ it can’t be broke no fuckin’ mo’.

Lemonade

Pitcher 1 – Intuition

On the surface, Queen Bey is referencing the power women are known to have to be spiritually connected with those they love. We tend to know when our mates mess up, step out, transform from the lover who only seeks us as a source of affection to an infidel. We feel the haunts of strangers in our corridors and bedrooms. We pray to catch you uttering a name other than ours in the clandestine corners of our shared spaces. We pray you see us see you so our inner visions can be confirmed; to know we are not “crazy” or “insecure” without just cause.

We know. Even when we silence the internal discourse that reveals it and suppress the evidence you leave trailing behind, your dishonesty is palpable. We are each others confidants standing in solidarity without sharing a single word because we hold true to the declaration that “what happens in this family, stays in this family.” That mandate, the root of our cyclical heartaches and familial destruction.

Many of us have seen it time and again; first as an infantile witness, now as an object of the indiscretion. There is a lineage of malfeasances that some men {and women} uphold. It is unspoken, but understood by everyone for generations. It is seen in the familiar eyes of outside children with no last names. Proof is revealed in the glances of whispering women in back pews of the sanctuary. It is the look of pity and shame bestowed upon the children and spouses of the adulterer. It is the critical, shifting moment of womanhood when a daughter juxtaposes the perfection of her father with his failures as a husband. Oh, we know. Yet, we still try to make a home with you.

“You remind me of my father / A magician / Able to be in two places at once. /…. Like the men in my family, you come home at 3 am and lie to me”

This is often why wives are persecuted when husbands are unfaithful. “She had to have known,” they say. “She must not please him,” they relent. “How could she be so ‘great’ if she can’t even keep a happy home,” they scoff. Women are lashed on both sides of the “stand by your man” debate and criticized for being the “other woman” even if they believed themselves to be the only woman. Rarely is the man offered a scarlet letter with which to adorn himself.

Contrarily, men are demeaned intellectually rather than in deed. They are denigrated in the belief that their actions are beyond their control. “They can’t help themselves.” The implication is that men are so feeble in mind and tawdry in character that they would all roam from one willing woman to the next save the controlling claw of their “ball and chain.” Both suppositions derogate the roles and expectations of husbands and wives. So, as women, we usually play the role of being taken by surprise when these misdeeds come to surface.

But, here in this first chapter of the visual album “Lemonade,” Beyoncé owns our power of “Intuition.”

My daughter is four. Just yesterday, we were calculating the number of states she’s visited and how it pales in comparison to the number of countries she’s traveled. Being an expat kid afforded her opportunities and exposure most kids her age never experience, especially most black American kids. She is, or at least she was when practiced daily, fluent in Mandarin and the colloquial language of Singlish. She can count in English, Spanish, Mandarin, and French. She can recognize the difference between Asian cultural nuances and people; a characteristic most adult Americans lack. (They do NOT all look alike.) She is well versed in globalization, and is accepting, loving, and inclusive of everyone. Never has she met a stranger when it comes to other children. This is not, however, because of her exposure to multi-cultures. Her ability to engage cross-culturally is due to the foundation of her education being rooted in a love for her own culture.

A few weeks ago, we were asking questions about Ida B. Wells and President Obama in a casual conversation. She rattled off answers and was able to compare their contributions without hesitation. She ended the dialogue with the statement, “I know all about my heroes because you teach me everyday.” It was a proud moment as her mother and first educator.

She began learning of our “Heroes” as a part of her daily curriculum once she turned 14-months-old. We would introduce her to a new hero through flash cards and teach her facts about each one. If I was feeling ambitious, I’d couple the introduction with an activity that cemented who the hero was and what they contributed to society, not just black society, but their impact on the world. She understood the importance of offering reverence to our ancestors and the difference between our ancestors and the ancestors of our counterparts. She learned to appreciate our history, culture, beauty, and contributions at the very beginning of her educational cultivation. This was intentional and imperative because “culture is elemental, not supplemental.” Now, each hero serves as a reminder of her own ability and greatness.

Whenever she feels timid about performing, we remind her of Lena Horne or Paul Robeson or Janell Monae. When she’s frustrated by math or science, she hears encouragement from the strides of Mae Jemison, Benjamin Banneker, the creator of Mathematics, our ancestor Imhotep, or her uncle who holds a Masters in Applied Mathematics. http://www.math.buffalo.edu/mad/wohist.html When she’s in need of inspiration, we echo the poignant words of our legends Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, and Countee Cullen. We do this so often, she understands that it’s a part of our regular exchange. During Black History Month this year, we’ll be highlighting even more living heroes like Eunique Jones and our recent contributions, so that she understands that our greatness is still relevant and being displayed. Not only does this teach her the importance of loving ourselves, it gives her the confidence to walk in any setting anywhere in the world and know that she can hold her own, while appreciating the other cultures represented; appreciation without assimilation. In every great obstacle she’ll face in her life, she’ll know that someone, someone that shares her history, lineage, and culture, has already conquered something similar, and therefore,victory is simply hers to obtain. This is why…..

This is why…we need our own schools. We need Freedom Schools again. We need schools that educate our children about themselves and schools that exercise the freedom to push our children to their highest potential, just as every other ethnic group has.

Educating and empowering children is a constant focus as it has a direct correlation to our elevation. When I served as the Language Arts Instructor and later principal of an African-centered PreK-8th grade school, I helped draft a culturally enhanced, accelerated, cross-sectional curriculum that challenged teachers and students to meet its rigor. When I left the traditional classroom and began consulting, training, and instructing teachers and students under the umbrella of Behavior Modification, I found that the greatest challenge in every age group was the lack of belief in self and, in most cases with students, who (the people;culture) they represented. It has always been a long-term goal to either start a school or become a part of the community of one that houses our ideals to remedy this foundational problem.

Both of my children have had a monthly holistic curriculum tailored to their learning styles since birth that incorporates learning about our culture. I wouldn’t say I’m a Tiger Mom, (I lived in Asia and saw first-hand what that truly means), but I am in the Big Cat family. I believe all children are born with a zeal to learn and will rise to meet every obtainable expectation, so I set them very high, especially for my own.

While doing our “for now and possibly forever” city search, we knew that finding a community or a place where one could be established easily would be the best fit for us at this time. Finding a school that met our needs was a critical component in the process. We searched Dallas the most extensively because it was the most practical selection for us. After two separate visits, we found the search for housing and thriving black communities to be somewhat lacking. Every home we toured fell below our expectations because it was either too far from South Dallas, where the predominantly black community once flourished, or it was too small, inexplicably expensive, worn, or aesthetically displeasing. Every neighborhood or suburb that was recommended lacked black businesses and the sense of community we were seeking. We were also warned by natives and transplants alike that the schools in each of the areas we searched were not high achieving. Sadly, this became a mantra whenever we inquired about the educational system in the city.

Yet, there was one wonderful aberration. We were told about a wonderful school that was both unapologetically black and Christian, two threads that seem to have been slowly unwound since desegregation. We did a school visit and I almost wept tears of joy. The beautiful imagery of our excellence, our ancestors, our history, our children sheathed every inch of the vast campus. Our Biblical tales were painted murals or stained glass windows in our likeness. The school and its adjoining community center was in the heart of South Dallas and had a track record that began in the 60’s. We envisioned galvanizing others to buy homes in the surrounding area to restore it to its prominence. We thought of the great work we could do there. The school encompassed the entire spirit of the Back to Black List. We were in awe, and immediately decided our choice would be Dallas based on the school alone. Yes, that’s putting a lot on it, but we were just that impressed and eager to get settled and begin working towards our communal goals.

During our first school visit, we’d left our daughter in Florida with my parents. We were informed that she needed to be assessed and we would also have to be screened through a parent interview before acceptance to the prominent private school could be determined. We inquired about the possibility of placing the kibibi in Kindergarten despite being a year younger than the required age in public schools. After completing a full semester of Kindegarten already in Singapore (currently ranked the world’s best and most rigorous school system), we desired to maintain the fluidity of her education as much as possible with placement in Kindergarten for the sake of her academic and emotional adjustment. We were told that the assessment and interviews would not only determine acceptance, but grade placement. Because the curriculum is accelerated, we were told, she would be challenged in PreK in the event that she did not excel on the test. We were very excited about her being in control of her own placement to a degree, and very comfortable accepting the determination based on the outcome either way.

Several weeks later, after constant communication with the Dean of Admissions to schedule the best time to travel with our entire family to Dallas for the sole purpose of having our daughter assessed and finding a home, we finally returned to the auspicious halls of the school. Two other sets of parents were waiting to be interviewed while their children were being assessed. The kibibi was led to a classroom by one of the Kindergarten teachers and returned quite some time later beaming from ear to ear. She had done extremely well; so much so, that it was questioned whether she was truly her age and mentioned that she might actually be ready for first grade. We were ecstatic. It was the first bit of good news we’d had in Dallas during any of our visits. It gave us the motivation to keep scouring houses and neighborhoods near the school so we could find one to call home.

This happened last Wednesday. By Friday, we received the general acceptance letter to the school, to which we replied with an inquiry about her placement. That’s when it all went South Dallas. The following day, we received a letter stating that Kindergarten readiness could not be determined from their assessment and that an individualized curriculum would be established for her to be challenged in the PreK program. Say what now? We were led to believe that after her testing, she would be placed in a grade level based on her performance. Had she not excelled on the test, we would’ve happily accepted the decision and enrolled her in PreK. However, she did exactly as we always implore her to do: her best. We expected the reward for which to be proper performance-based placement as indicated. It wasn’t. This meant that we had the choice of paying 10k for her to repeat pre-school at this amazing school we grew very fond of, finding another less expensive pre-school, starting a school in Dallas that met her needs, or finding another city.

I had such a sinking feeling. We were so ready to end this unsettled nomad family life, but we left Dallas with no home and no school because we were not willing to have our child possibly feel isolated in a classroom simply because the school wouldn’t honor the results of their own assessment. It was later whispered that the administration felt pressured to place her in PreK in order to avoid the inevitable complaints and accusations of nepotism from other parents. This infuriated and bewildered me even more. I began to feel like we were trying to force ourselves into a place that just didn’t fit at the time. Hence, the final final decision.

Education is at the heart of everything I do, and the experience in Dallas has shown me that I must fully commit myself to using my passion for it to empower others. No child should have to sit and wait to learn with their peers for any reason in one of the wealthiest countries in the world. And, no child of mine ever will.

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My five-month-old son swallowed a grape whole today. Twelve minutes of restricted breathing felt like a brief lifetime slipping away in my arms. Every tragic scenario imaginable played previews in my mind as I swung him upside down, forcing my finger down his throat and beating him in the back to no avail. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t coughing. I was overcome with terror.

“What if he was suffering? What if there was irreparable damage? What if…..the unthinkable??!! “

Nothing can fully prepare you for all parenthood hurls at you. We waited, planned, put all of our proverbial ducks in a row. I secured infant CPR certification, (which has since relapsed), read & studied, and lent my ear to every parent I knew with a wealth of experience. In the moment that I was holding my son and trying to prevent his young life from slipping from his body, I could remember very little of it.

I shoved my finger so far down his throat that I could feel the mass, but not grasp it. I could only push it to allow air in and a stream of blood out onto the floor. I will never forget the look of confusion and horror on his tiny plump face as I watched my pecan tan baby boy shift shades to that of a red onion. It was as though he was beseeching me to fix it and horrified that I couldn’t. After many frenzied attempts to help him dislodge the pulpous fruit had failed, I frantically ran out of my front door barefoot and screaming for help from anyone in sight. The first two women, just at my doorstep, gasped and walked quickly in the opposite direction. The next pair, a middle-aged couple, ran onto the elevator; they were pressing the button to close the door over and over as I rushed pass them and out into the communal area of our complex.

There were very few in view as I ran closer to the center. An elder woman lying next to one at least half her age were precisely in front of me on the opposite side of the pool. A father with his young child and possibly his parents were directly to my left. A bare-chested man in trunks was lying and reading on the opposite side at the far end, and a woman in the water was walking the length of the pool. I surveilled each one for some sign of willingness to assist as I screamed for help with such desperation that I began to choke on my own cries. Both the man and the pair of women across the pool stared, but sat motionless. I ran towards the family. Surely, they would know what to do and be urgent in assisting me. The matriarch pointed and shook her head in curiosity, while the father grabbed his own child to shield them from my screeches.

The water-walking woman leapt from the pool and motioned for me to stop running.

“Do you know CPR,” I shrieked with my son dangling in my hands.

She told me, “no” before trying to sit me down to help him anyway. Two other women eventually approached. One dressed in a floral frock motioned for others to help. The other, another mother as she stated, grabbed my son and began performing the same steps I had already done at home.

1. Secure baby in arms and hold face down over one knee with head lower than chest. “Be careful! Don’t drop him!”

2. Begin back thrusts. “Five I think, but I’m certain I did more. Just keep going.”

6. Stick finger in mouth and press into belly to remove object. “Do you feel it? Is it in there?”

His nose was clogged with mucus; his eyes stiff with tears. A stream of saliva and vomit streamed from his mouth with traces of blood, but there was no grape. No crying. No coughing. No unrestricted breathing. It wasn’t working!!

What if I lose him? Oh God, what if I lose him?!!! Please save my son! I can’t lose him…not like this. Not over a stupid grape! He’s too young. I love him so much. Oh God!! I won’t be able to go home. I can’t face {my husband}. He’ll never forgive me. I’ll never forgive me. I can’t go back home without him. I can’t face my parents. What will I tell my baby girl?

No, he’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Repeat. Repeat! Repeat!!

I just began praying. All I could do was pray and beg God to save my sweet little baby boy. I had already done all else. The man across the pool finally stood with his phone to the side of his face. “Call 999,” I screamed to *Catherine, our live-in assistant who’d trampled out for help behind me. The head security officer used his two-way radio to request assistance before suggesting we move into the Function Room of the condo. The fellow mother followed. A timid, wide-eyed teenage boy stood in the lobby with his cell phone planked in his hands recording the raucous. I covered my baby and glared at him as a lioness would her next kill. This was not entertainment. He lowered the phone as we whisked into a private room.

Two petite women came in shortly; one, Bella, announced herself as a nurse. I immediately thought of my sister, an RN in the states, and a greater calm came over me. She took my prince and did all of the necessary steps.

1. Secure baby in arms and hold face down over one knee with head lower than chest. “He’s going to be fine.”

2. Begin back thrusts. “I’m trusting You.”

3. Turn face up with head still lower than chest. “I’m releasing him to You God.”

“He’s crying,” faintly, but it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. No grape ever appeared. There was just a gelatinous fluid masking his entire face, but he was crying and breathing; labored as it was. My phone began ringing and I noticed the time was 12:12. It was exactly 12 minutes since the last time I looked at the clock and realized my son was choking. Bella assured me that he would be fine. She pressed his little wiggling toes and fingers to show the color was returning and blood was flowing through his body. Based on his shortness of breath, she gathered that he must’ve swallowed it completely. He looked at me so longingly and wearily and limply fell into my arms just as the paramedics entered the room.

I didn’t fully rejoice until he began sucking his thumb in the back of the ambulance. He fell asleep on my shoulder, but I kept nudging him. I wanted to see his eyes, the fullness and liveliness of them. I needed to see his bright eyes open…at least until I was completely sure he was fine.

The visit at the hospital seemed shorter than the entire ordeal. I nursed him to sleep and squeezed and stared and kissed and held him like I did the day he crowned from my womb. My husband, calm as he is always, was already trying to add levity to the matter by boasting that it didn’t happen on his watch. Though I needed to smile, It was much too soon for the joke. Even as I type this, I keep staring back at my baby and placing my hand on his back to feel the breath flow through his little body. My incredibly beautiful baby boy is fine, but I’m not…not yet.

One friend witnessed the uproar from her thirteenth floor condo. Her windows were open; feeling the fresh wind and basking in the silence of midday, until it was interrupted with the screeches of a frantic mother calling for help. When she lifted her pregnant frame to the window and realized it was me, she wept and began praying. That’s all the strength she could find to do in fear of putting her own unborn child at risk with the stress of hurried movement. After all was resolved, another friend reminded me to be kind to myself in the next few days and not to allow myself to be overcome with guilt, (too late), while yet another shared a similar story about her own child as a reminder that I’m not alone and all will be well. My son’s Godmother sent me encouraging words and reminded me that I face no obstacle alone. That’s what I needed; still need.

I can’t predict the throws of parenthood. No one can. The best we can do is use what we know in a moment of crisis, and admit we know nothing when it’s time to release it completely. Tonight, I’m holding both of my babies a little tighter with the looming reminder that every moment is sacred and life is fleeting. He is fine, laughing with the infectious joy that is not of this world. They are both fine. That’s what I need.

For more information about infant CPR, please visit: http://www.babycenter.com/0_infant-first-aid-for-choking-and-cpr-an-illustrated-guide_9298.bc

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I used to love Saturday mornings as a kid. My sister, brother, and I would compete to see who would wake up first. Then, the three of us would race to and leap into my parents’ bed while screaming, and tickle them until they would begin swatting us away like flies at a picnic. If they didn’t respond fast enough, one of us would grab their heads as another would forcibly peel their eyelids back until the oculus was bulging from its socket and we’d blow our morning breath on the ivory ball.

They’d try to smother us with pillows and put us back to sleep and we’d always pummel through the mountain of fluff louder and more rambunctious. They’d plead for our silence to no avail. My dad would eventually wake up and make his famous thin pancakes with the crispy edges and mom would let us watch TV for the first time all week, (before The Cosby Show won our Thursdays). Saturday morning cartoons were the backdrop for syrup dripping and family snuggling on the couch.

In college, I didn’t see Saturday mornings. I slept until there were fifteen minutes left before “The Caf'” stopped serving breakfast, and then I’d almost trip over myself to get there and catch the last of the waffles before going back to snuggle into slumber. As a young adult, the Saturday morning sleep-in was practiced with proficiency. It wasn’t until I married that I saw Saturday before noon and that was only to “snuggle” and go right back to sleep.

Now, Saturday mornings have a completely new meaning. We’re the parents! The prince begins his screeching wake up call before seven, followed by the kibibi’s rhythmic knock for permission to enter. Our bed is now bombarded with little feet and tickles and giggles and demands to rise to make oatmeal. The logic of a three-year-old literally says, “I’m awake, and Little Gege is awake, so you have to wake up…now.” I’m sure this is the reprisal for my own child-like reasoning with my parents.

These seasons of Saturdays have been a marker for each phase of my life; each one enjoyable and something I excitedly anticipated each week. They all passed too briefly it seems now. So, until my little alarm clocks grow too old to think we’re cool, I’m going to relish in this new Saturday snuggle and watch “Doc McStuffins” while eating oatmeal with a wide smile and great appreciation for this new day. Good morning!

We don’t raise our children
to mourn the loss of them.
We don’t love them wholly to watch the life vacate from their bodies and ascend beyond our reach.

We don’t raise them to lower them into the cold cavities of the earth and see them no more. We don’t hold them at our breast or carry the breadth of their bodies on our chest to be robbed of their embrace.

We watch them age,
transform,

question,

fall,

and rise,

so that we may experience the fullness of their maturation and witness the formation of their youthful imaginations.

We raise our children to love and be loved; to be reflections of Love; the Love that is, was, and ever will be.

We, the village that cradles them, the crowns that bow and summon the guiding beam of our God and forefathers, We raise our children so that they may have life in all of its fundamental rights and concessions, that they may create something better with it than did we.

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It’s important to know your child and to be their advocate. I always want to be receptive to any feedback and criticism I get about my children, but I also want to praise their positive attributes and encourage who they naturally are. This is vital to their holistic development.

So, I got the kibibi’s progress report from her part-time local school yesterday. According to the assessments, she did well in all areas EXCEPT “Music & Movement,” where it was determined that she doesn’t “respond to rhythm,” “participate in music and movement,” “enjoy singing/dancing,” “understand musical concepts,” or “keep a steady beat.”

Now, if you know my child at all, you know she LOVES music and dancing. At first, I thought that maybe she’s not being herself at school. This happens. Then, I remembered she comes home singing all the songs from school daily. And, the posted video where she executed the choreography for the school’s performance with such exuberance certainly displays a response to rhythm and participation in music and movement. Her behavior must be consistent, so that’s not it. (Guess which one is mine.)

In the states, I witnessed many occasions when a student’s cultural differences caused criticism and punitive consequences. This made me reflect on why I loved Sakkara Youth Institute so much and why I started ISIS, (my own school) for her in the first place. I remembered that our children are often mislabeled, misunderstood, misplaced, misdiagnosed, or just missed in the classroom altogether. This is why we need our own schools and educators who are culturally sensitive and aware.

Yet, we are in a foreign land now. And, I have another genius that needs my full-time attention for a while, so we have to operate within the scope. Teacher conferences will be essential. Students aren’t the only ones that need to be educated. Good thing I have a passion for education. Class is in session.